I got a deep-fat fryer. This was probably a mistake, but I needed one for Letters To Bourdain when I had to make pommes frites. (that's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

Naturally at some point, bad things were going to happen with that fryer. It's also not terribly surprising that it involved daogre. Wee were going to fry up a few little things and watch football, and then for a real meal make blanquette de homard since lobsters are in season right now, and he hasn't murdered a lobster yet. Best laid plans.

So round one was breakfast fry-ups, which was sweet stuff. We made (and bear in mind, all of this was deep-fat fried) French bread pecan pie raviolis, lambic battered Reese's peanut butter cups, pumpkin pie wontons, fried Twinkies, gingerbread balls and pumpkin pie raviolis. Am I forgetting anything? My brain is sort of saturated with grease and fat right now so it's running a little sluggish. But don't worry, once my heart restarts it should clear up.

We took a break. At some point my neighbor (who, if this were a Hollywood movie would totally be the sassy gay neighbor, but I think he might be straight, actually. Definitely sassy though.) stopped in because it smelled good and tried a pumpkin pie wonton and made a comment to the effect of that though he can fit into size 30 pants, it's clear the two of us like fried foods. This is what my life is reduced to. Self-inflicted, of course, I'm sensible to that.

Then came an interlude. My memory is hazy but at some point the whole day went by - it's like I slowed down to about 33RPM when the rest of the world was 45. Somehow or another we decided we were hungry again, so we fried some beer-battered mozzarella string cheese. That was a good as it sounds.

Finally, the main event - the savory fried goods. Buffalo wings in beer batter, macaroni and cheese wontons, rillettes wontons (leftover from Letters To Bourdain ), fried mashed potatoes (didn't work, they just shrunk to little pebbles), beer-battered california roll and shrimp sushi, and a long-held ambition of mine, The Monstrosity - de-boned buffalo wing stuffed with cheese, wrapped with bacon and beer-battered, fried and rolled in buffalo sauce. That was a gigantic mess, but everything I hoped it would be.

At this point we were so absurdly bloated that the entire wheel of queso fresco and chicken-sausage corndogs didn't actually happen. They're not going to, either, dammit. I need to find a way to get rid of a gallon of rancid peanut oil, then I'm putting that damn thing away for a long time. And also eating nothing but air and perfume-of-lettuce for a month.